An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Rachel expanded the happy occasion by inviting several other friends to join them: Jane and Gabriel Locke and their son, Jack Avi, Joseph and Mercy Kingsley and her aunt Matilda, the vicar, Mr. Paley and his family, among others, as well as Jamie Fleming. Rachel also invited Susanna Evans and her family, but Susanna had not felt comfortable accepting. Instead, David Murray was spending the evening at Honeycroft with them.

  For the party, Rachel and Mrs. Nettleton had planned a buffet supper with many desserts: jellies, mince pies, marzipan, and an elaborate Twelfth Night cake from Craddock’s Bakery, with colored icing and decorative gilded paper trimmings.

  They enjoyed music by local musicians along with tea, punch, and cider to add to the general cheer. The youngest among them—the vicar’s sons, Jack Avi, and Jamie Fleming—bobbed for apples and played hunt the slipper. They ate too many sweets and sneaked treats to Wally and Lady Barbara’s pug, who had become fast friends.

  The games Rachel had planned for the adults did not transpire. Friendly conversation, hearty congratulations, laughter, and good-natured teasing filled the hours instead.

  Rachel had rarely seen her mother-in-law so happy. Lady Barbara wore her new brooch, held her grandson in her arms, and stood between her children—all except one soon to be married.

  “Richard, my dear boy. You will be next. I know it!” She kissed him, Justina, and Timothy in turn, beaming from one to the other. In response, little Frederick gave his grandmamma a wet, sloppy kiss of his own.

  At one point in the evening, Lady Barbara took Richard, Timothy, and Rachel aside and said, “I have been thinking. You are welcome to live here, Richard. I hope that goes without saying. But I thought we might buy you a small house nearby—with Timothy’s approval, of course. Apparently, one called Bramble Cottage is for sale. Perhaps with some alteration it might be made commodious enough for a soon-to-be published author?”

  Sir Timothy’s gaze flashed to Richard, then to Rachel—the three of them who knew the history of Bramble Cottage. Timothy cleared his throat. “A . . . em . . . cottage like that one, may not suit, Mamma. It would be rather humble compared to the townhouse or Brockwell Court.”

  Richard smiled reassuringly from person to person. “Not too humble for me. Thank you, Mamma. A cottage sounds perfect. I can write anywhere.”

  Rachel and Timothy shared a look of surprise. “Well,” Timothy said. “Good. We can discuss the details later.”

  Around ten that night, families with children began saying their farewells, and by eleven, all but the houseguests had departed, everyone determined to get home in time to take down their own decorations before midnight.

  In Brockwell Court, the family, servants, and guests worked together, hurrying around the house and taking down all the decorations before the last stroke of twelve, to avoid bad luck in the coming year. Rachel found it rather humorous to see well-dressed ladies and gentlemen pulling down greenery and tossing holly berries at one another, laughing and teasing.

  “You missed a branch. Pick it up! Do you want a goblin to come inside?”

  It wasn’t that they put much stock in luck, but it was tradition. And even if the people of Ivy Hill didn’t believe in bad luck or goblins, they believed in tradition.

  All the pine, holly, and ivy, all the yew, rosemary, and bay were carried out and tossed onto a large bonfire behind the house. And what aromatic smoke rose from it!

  Richard looked around him. Everyone else, it seemed, had gone out to the bonfire or to their beds. He stood alone in the drawing room, looking again at every window, chandelier, and mantel to make sure nothing was left. His gaze landed on the garland around his father’s portrait, surprised his mother had missed it. He carried over a ladder-back chair, climbed up, and took down the faded roses. He lingered a moment, studying his father’s face, so like his own. Looking his father in the eye, he whispered, “I forgive you, Papa. And I hope you forgave me.”

  The clock began to chime.

  Before the last stroke of midnight, Richard jogged outside, tossing the garland onto the bonfire and the past with it. There, he joined the others gathered around, talking and laughing and relishing the warmth of flames, friends, and family.

  Christmas in Ivy Hill was coming to a close. He could go home to London now, if he wanted to. But he did not. He was home already.

  Epilogue

  Arabella took up residence in her aunt’s guest room and in her aunt’s London life. While other young women of her age and background attended the opera or the few off-season balls or routs, Arabella attended charity concerts at the Foundling Hospital and benefits for the British and Foreign Bible Society and the Ladies Royal Benevolent Society, which hosted sermons at St. James’s to raise funds for its work among poor, sick females. She quickly became involved in her aunt’s work, volunteering her time, donating her own money, and being richly rewarded in return. At an event for the Magdalen Hospital, Arabella was invited to play the harp and afterward met William Wilberforce and one of the princesses.

  The weeks, then months passed in satisfying effort. If not attending an event or committee meeting of an evening, she and Aunt Gen and some of her friends gathered to knit booties and tiny blankets to supply one of several lying-in charities. The hours spent over tea, needlework, and good-natured teasing reminded her of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society meeting she had visited in Ivy Hill.

  Arabella’s days were devoted to raising money, promoting subscriptions, writing letters of appeal, and spending time in the St. George Orphan Refuge, inspecting the premises with the matron, helping her aunt engage new staff and instructors when needed, and—Arabella’s favorite—talking with the children about their histories and hopes and the skills they were learning.

  One afternoon, among the correspondence related to their various charitable endeavors, Arabella received a letter postmarked Ivy Hill, Wilts. Her heart gave a little foolish leap, as it always did when thinking of Ivy Hill. It was not from Richard Brockwell, of course. Single gentlemen did not write to single ladies unless they were engaged or had her family’s permission. The letter was from Mercy Kingsley, mistress of the Fairmont Boarding & Day School.

  My dear Miss Awdry,

  I trust you are enjoying life in London. I wanted to thank you again for playing the harp so beautifully for the children at Christmas and allowing some of the older students to try their hand at the instrument. They still speak of you and of the experience often and fondly! I don’t want to discourage or dissuade you from your present course if you are content, but if you should ever decide to return to our area, I would be pleased to offer you a situation teaching music here at the Fairmont charity school. . . .

  Arabella stared at the letter, and for a moment the words blurred before her eyes as she imagined what it would be like to live in Ivy Hill and teach in the school. Her mother would decry a paid position as beneath her, but she might volunteer instead.

  Naturally, she could not think of Ivy Hill without thinking of Richard. She knew, from a letter Justina had sent, that he had taken up residence in Bramble Cottage. She could imagine him there in that snug abode, writing away on his next book. Could see so clearly his handsome face, his teasing, admiring eyes. Then she imagined the two of them sitting in church together and afterward walking arm in arm down the street. . . .

  Coming into the room, Aunt Gen paused, staring down at her. “What has you smiling?”

  “Oh. Only a letter from Ivy Hill.”

  One wiry brow rose. “Ivy Hill?”

  Arabella refolded the note. “From Mrs. Kingsley, the schoolmistress.”

  “Humph. Thought it might be from Mr. Brockwell.” Aunt Gen dropped a folded publication on the desk. “This will have to tide you over instead.”

  Her aunt had taken to scanning all the various newspapers and magazines she read and giving anything about or by Richard Brockwell to Arabella. Today appeared another article he had written about the state of apprentices in the country. She was relieved to see he h
ad credited the St. George Orphan Refuge with changing their procedures for approving masters and called on other organizations to do likewise.

  Later that spring, Arabella began helping her aunt plan an anniversary dinner for the orphan refuge. Tireless in her efforts, Arabella organized a dinner, benefit concert, and ball to rival any other in the metropolis. She met with the tavern owners about the menu, engaged performers, and promoted the event, writing articles for the newspapers and invitations to dignitaries and neighbors alike.

  The project consumed several months and much of Arabella’s energies. Thankfully, she liked being busy. Her aunt grumbled about the pace Arabella set, but she could see the older woman was grateful for her efforts.

  Finally, the big day came and went according to plan: the dinner delicious, the concert inspiring, the ball delightful.

  Aunt Genevieve seemed thoroughly pleased. “The event was a resounding success. Never before have we brought in so much money in one evening. You have done well, my dear. I am so proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” Arabella smiled. She felt satisfied at a job well done, yet also sensed a catch in her spirit. Something was missing. She ought to feel exultant, but a dull hollowness lingered beneath her breastbone. She realized what it was, but keeping busy had held it at bay. Now that the all-consuming event was over, she could no longer refrain from naming the ache for what she knew it to be.

  Loneliness.

  That autumn, Aunt Gen came in and laid another publication on the desk. This time, however, the circled paragraph was not an article about the plight of apprentices, orphans, or the like. It was a review of Richard’s first book. Arabella held her breath and read, then released a sigh of relief. “‘Interesting characters. Clever and amusing. Though the ending is wanting, overall a well-written first novel.’” Arabella looked up. “This is quite positive for the Quarterly Review.”

  “I agree.”

  A few weeks later, Aunt Gen brought in another newspaper with an advertisement circled in ink. “Hatchards Booksellers is announcing the arrival of Mr. Brockwell’s novel. Shall we go and buy a copy?”

  Arabella’s pulse quickened at the thought. Although not the same as seeing Richard again, reading his novel would give her insight into the man and be the next best thing. Keeping her tone as placid as possible, she said, “If you would like, I have no objection.”

  Her aunt turned to stare at her. “Are you not interested?”

  “Well, I own I am curious. He is a friend, after all.”

  “Right. A friend.”

  The next day they hailed a hackney coach to take them to 187 Piccadilly, the bookshop next to Fortnum & Mason—grocer, tea dealer, and spice importer.

  Two bays of mullioned windows flanked the shop’s center doorway. Above these were painted the words

  HATCHARDS BOOKSELLERS TO THE KING.

  ESTABLISHED 1797.

  Arabella paused at the display in the first bow window. Her aunt came and stood beside her. There it was. Richard’s first published novel in the window of his favorite bookseller. He should be standing here, seeing this. She wished she were an artist and could capture the sight for him.

  Her aunt said, “Shall we go in and buy a copy, or stand out here gawping at it all day?”

  Accustomed to her aunt’s brusque humor by now, Arabella grinned like a little girl with a present to unwrap. “Let’s go in.”

  That night, Arabella climbed into bed with the new novel, candle lamp on the side table nearby. As she read the lines, she could hear Richard’s voice in her ear. She recognized his wry humor and quick wit, yes, but also discovered a deeper, sensitive nature. Arabella pressed a hand to her beating heart. The book itself was not suggestive or overly sensual, yet there was something strangely intimate about reading Richard Brockwell’s words in her own bed. As she read about the novel’s hero, it was Richard Brockwell she saw, his tall figure, handsome face, and beguiling mouth . . .

  She pressed her eyes closed with a groan. Oh, you romantic fool, she chastised herself. If Aunt Gen could guess her thoughts, she’d call her ninny-headed for sure.

  Richard sat at a small desk in Bramble Cottage, scratching away with quill and ink. The cottage was perfect for writing. Quiet, peaceful, lovely . . . though admittedly lonely. Now and again Murray stopped by with Peter and Hannah. Or Mrs. Reeves would come by with a pot of honey or plate of biscuits. Pickering had remained at Brockwell Court. Their old butler Carville had finally retired, and Timothy offered the position to Pickering. Richard didn’t blame his former valet for not wanting to live in this humble cottage with him alone, not when Mrs. Dean lived in the far finer Brockwell Court. But Richard actually missed the crusty man’s company.

  With Rachel’s help, he had instead engaged Mrs. Mullins to work a few hours every morning, tidying up, cooking a pot of stew, or putting on clean sheets back from the laundress, while one of her sons chopped wood or scythed the lawn, or whatever else needed doing out of doors. Richard dressed and shaved himself, laid his own fires, made his own coffee, and washed up his own dishes, which were few indeed. He dined at Brockwell Court a few evenings a week and enjoyed spending time with his nephew and sister. And he regularly went riding with his brother.

  He missed Wally too. With Murray’s permission, he had given the dog to Jamie Fleming, or rather Wally had chosen for himself a young new master, always seeking the boy out, whining when called away from his side. Richard had given in, and though he missed the scruffy animal’s presence, he was glad he could still visit both the boy and his dog in the nearby High Street whenever he wished.

  At the thought, he put on his greatcoat and gloves and went out for his almost daily walk. The early December days were growing cold already, and he increased his pace to warm up. He strode into the village and down the High Street. He noted with satisfaction a display of Reeves honey in the window of Prater’s Universal Stores and Post Office and while there, posted a letter to his publisher.

  On the way back, he stopped at the print shop to see how Murray and Jamie were getting on. The two worked together companionably on an order of calling cards and sheets of new music for the upcoming Christmas season. Both boy and dog came forward eagerly to greet him, Wally’s tail wagging as he nudged Richard’s shin with his head, begging to be petted. Wally accepted Richard’s affection but then returned to his new master’s side. Seeing Jamie’s happiness and contentment with his new life was all the gratitude Richard needed.

  He continued his stroll, waving to neighbors, shopkeepers, and farmers passing by in their wagons as he went. Walks, he’d found, never failed to stir his mind and spark his imagination.

  He returned to Bramble Cottage, eager to write down a new idea for a scene that had stymied him all morning. He took his place at the desk, filled his quill with ink, and began scratching away again. Yes, yes . . . the solution he’d been hoping for presented itself at last. Thank you, Lord.

  A knock sounded at the door. Richard kept writing.

  Bang, bang. Another knock, more persistent this time. With a groan, Richard set down his quill and pushed back his chair. Probably Mrs. Snyder, or perhaps Peter Evans come to chat. Suppressing a sigh, he reminded himself that a visit from a neighbor was not an unwelcome interruption.

  He opened the door and stilled.

  Definitely not an unwelcome visitor.

  There stood Arabella Awdry, even more beautiful than he remembered.

  “Miss Awdry. What a surprise.”

  He glanced behind her and saw the waiting chaise, her aunt visible in its open doorway.

  “We are on our way to Broadmere,” Arabella began, “but I wanted to stop and congratulate you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have been following your articles with interest, as well as reviews for your new book. Aunt Gen and I bought a copy at Hatchards. I recently finished it and thought it excellent. Well done.”

  “Thank you.” He took a steadying breath. “And you? How goes life in London? Fruitful?”


  “Yes, I think so.”

  He nodded toward the chaise. “You and your aunt are visiting for the upcoming holidays, I imagine?”

  “Yes. That is . . . she will return to London afterward. I plan to stay. Mrs. Kingsley has asked me to teach music in her school, and I have agreed.”

  He felt his brows rise, and his hopes. “I am surprised but happy to hear it.”

  She nodded. “I enjoyed my time in London, working beside my aunt. Even so, I missed my family. And I missed . . . you. I now realize I don’t have to live in London to do something worthwhile with my life. I can serve God and my fellow man wherever I am.”

  Richard swallowed, then said, “Perhaps even here, with me?”

  She nodded, her eyes shining. “Yes.”

  Arabella loosened the gathered opening of her reticule. “I know it’s early for decorations, but I bought this from an old woman at a coaching inn.” She extracted a small branch of mistletoe complete with white berries. “I was sorry we never had a chance to use your kissing bough last Christmas.”

  His eyes widened, and joy shot through him. “We can remedy that now.”

  She raised it over their heads, and he smiled into her eyes, then lowered his gaze to her mouth. Slowly, he leaned near, fingers cupping her cheek, his other arm encircling her waist. He pressed his lips softly and sweetly to hers, then kissed her again more deeply.

  “All right, you two,” Mrs. Arbuthnot called from the waiting chaise. “I’m not getting any younger or warmer sitting out here. Your mother will wonder what became of us. Are you ready to go, or have you had a change of heart?”

  Arabella looked at her aunt, then turned back to Richard, smiling up into his face. “Yes, I have had a change of heart. That is it exactly.”